


Love is a Dream of Beauty

by BazzyBelle



Series: Carry On Countdown Fics (2019) [13]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, But like different stages of lovers, Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Carry On Countdown 2019, Day 27: Time Travel, Enemies to Friends, Firenze | Florence, Florence - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Historical, Historical References, M/M, Neoclassism, Neoplatonism, Platonic Love, Renaissance Era, Snippet of a longer story, This is definitely the nerdiest thing I will ever write, and no one asked for this, but I've wanted to write a Renaissance story since like 2009, plato - Freeform, renaissance florence, shout out to those who know Plato and who understand where I'm going with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazzyBelle/pseuds/BazzyBelle
Summary: I am known by many names in this court. Signore Pitch is one, but I find that to be dreadfully formal. I am not a master, nor am I nobility (well… not anymore). Amongst my peers and the scholars at the Academy, as well as the members of Lorenzo’s court, I am referred to as Tyrannus (which is probably worse than Signore Pitch, but these Florentines do love their classical history). My closest friends (of which I can count on one hand) refer to me as Basil or Baz, which is frankly what I prefer. It was what my mother and father called me before they died.There is also what enemies of the Medici like to refer to me as: The Displaced Prince. I would find it rather insulting, if I wasn’t so amused by it.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown Fics (2019) [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554754
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	Love is a Dream of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> So I am giddy with excitement about writing this fic! It’s a snippet for an AU historical fiction (my personal favourite literary genre) that I’ve started working on. I have a basic outline drawn up, I have plots and tropes and quotes I want to use (I’ve even started making a playlist for it… because I’m THAT much of a dork), and those who I talk to on the regular know that I have not shut up about it. I’ve always loved The Renaissance in Florence, especially during the time of Lorenzo The Magnificent. My first university degree was History and Italian Culture, and the BULK of my classes involved the Florentine Renaissance (Neeeeeeeeerd). Ok! I won’t bore you all with details now, wait for my AU fic! Title and beginning quote are taken from the Neo-Platonist philosopher Marsilio Ficino. 
> 
> Thank you to Tbazzsnow (Artescapri) for being the best Beta throughout this Countdown, and for being so enthusiastic and encouraging for this story. I look forward to our many nerdy discussions about Plato and everything Renaissance-related.

_ Artists in each of the Arts seek after and care for nothing but Love.  _

**_February 20th, 1490_ **

**BAZ**

“Signore Pitch!”

I look up from the text I’m analyzing to see one of Lorenzo’s (yes, Lorenzo de’ Medici...  _ Il Magnifico  _ to most, but to me, he’s always been Lorenzo) assistants rushing towards me. He is one of the younger ones, I believe. What was his name?

Paolo? 

Francesco? 

_ Marco! _

I put down the book I have been reading (Livy’s  _ Ab Urbe Condita Libri _ \- History of Rome - I’m working on translations for Book 9) and look at the nervous young man. I do not understand why the servants and assistants fear me. I suppose it is my dark and broody nature that unsettles them. Or maybe the fact that I have little to no patience for the courtly life and the politics that go along with it. 

“Yes, Marco? How can I help you?” I gaze down at the young man. Maybe it’s my cold eyes that are constantly glaring and the way I always sneer when I’m annoyed that frightens the younger workers.

“Gran… Gran Maestro de’ Medici would like a word with you.” I take in a sharp breath and nod at the young man. If Lorenzo wants to speak with me, it is for one of two reasons; either I have done something that displeases him (unlikely), or he wants something of me. A request from Lorenzo de’ Medici is not a request one simply ignores (though, Lorenzo has a soft spot for me, so I can get away with more than others).

“Is it urgent?” I raise an eyebrow at Marco, which only increases his nervousness. Honestly! Why does he have to be so apprehensive? It’s not like I am going to bite him or anything! Marco looks to the floor, not wanting to meet my eyes.

“He said to call for you immediately, Signore Pitch.” 

I sigh deeply and offer him a curt nod. “Very well. I shall be with him shortly.” I turn back to my book. I want to finish this last page before going to meet Lorenzo. I look up briefly to notice that Marco is still standing nervously in front of me. I roll my eyes at him and point to the door. “You may leave.”

Marco stumbles out of my room. I shake my head and continue with my translations. It is my unofficial job at the Academy, to translate these texts from Greek to Latin as well as the local vernacular. I am not fond of the vernacular, but there are still groups within the city that hold onto the linguistic belief set forth by the great poet, Dante. My peers may look down on those who choose to practice the vernacular, but Angelo Poliziano (my teacher, mentor, dearest friend) insists that I keep an open mind to the shifts and changes that come with learning the language. 

Satisfied with the quality of my translations, I close the books and stretch my back. I do not know how long I had been sitting at that table before Marco came to fetch me. Maybe I will go for a brief ride through the countryside to clear my head, once my meeting with Lorenzo is through. 

As I make my way through the corridors and halls of the villa, my mind begins to wander (this often happens, Marsilio Ficino calls it the philosopher’s curse) and I think about the young assistant. I should have expected the uncomfortable interaction based on how he addressed me alone. 

I am known by many names in this court. Signore Pitch is one, but I find that to be dreadfully formal. I am not a master, nor am I nobility (well… not anymore). Amongst my peers and the scholars at the Academy, as well as the members of Lorenzo’s court, I am referred to as Tyrannus (which is probably worse than Signore Pitch, but these Florentines _ do _ love their classical history). My closest friends (of which I can count on one hand) refer to me as Basil or Baz, which is frankly what I prefer. It was what my mother and father called me before they died. 

There is also what enemies of the Medici like to refer to me as:  _ The Displaced Prince _ . I would find it rather insulting, if I wasn’t so amused by it. They are not wrong in calling me that, except I was never really a prince. My family was a noble one, but we fell from grace many years ago. Actually, I may be the last member of my family remaining. I suppose that’s why Lorenzo has kept me around all these years. I have been around the court of Lorenzo de Medici long enough to understand how the politics work around here. I am of noble blood and eligible for a political match that could work in Lorenzo’s favour, and continue on for his son, Piero. It’s truly a shame that I have no interest in political matches. 

Or marriage for that matter.

I reach Lorenzo’s quarters. I knock on the door and wait patiently to be received. Lorenzo doesn’t typically spend much time here at his villa in Careggi. Most of his time is spent in the city itself, at his central palazzo. He has been here for a couple of days, and I wonder if he had come all this way in order to speak to me in person. Lorenzo de’ Medici never does anything without an ulterior motive. 

The door opens and I am ushered inside, where I find Lorenzo sitting at his desk, pen in hand, and a focused look on his face. He looks up to see me and his face brightens. 

“Tyrannus! How are you, my dear boy!” 

I enter the room and lightly bow my head. Lorenzo isn’t an official ruler of Florence, but as the head of the Medici family, it is a simple gesture of courtesy. “Good afternoon, Gran Maestro de’ Medici.” I address him by his official title, again as a sign of respect. I am many things, ill-mannered is not one of them. Lorenzo raises an eyebrow at me and shakes his head.

“Tyrannus, you have been a member of my household for nearly 15 years, I think at this point, you may call me Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo stares knowingly at me. I return the gaze with a raised eyebrow of my own before we both begin to laugh. Lorenzo rises from his seat and comes to greet me. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into a hug and kisses me on both cheeks. He pulls back to get a good look at me and smiles brightly. 

“Ahhhh… It’s good to see you! We do not see you very often anymore. I imagine Angelo has been working you to near death!” I laugh light-heartedly and shake my head.

“Not at all, Lorenzo. I rather enjoy the work, to be honest. It does me good to leaf through the books that once belonged to my family. To hold the pieces that are left of their legacy.” 

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to spend time amongst my family’s books. I was a very precocious child, always asking questions and wanting to absorb as much knowledge as I could. When I first arrived in Florence, all I wanted to do was spend time in the library. When Giuliano was still around, he would remind me to have fun and to allow myself to have a childhood… Despite that, most of my life was spent amidst the company of older, learned men. 

Lorenzo claps my shoulder and gives it a tiny shake. “Always so somber aren’t you? Your family’s legacy is not dead. You are still around.” He looks into my eyes. Brown eyes, contrasting to my grey. 

I sigh at him and start to step away from his grasp. “Only because the Divine has willed it so.”

“You truly  _ have _ been spending far too much time with the philosophers!” Lorenzo gives me another hearty laugh. “I do need to take a visit to The Academy. It has been far too long since I’ve taken part in one of Marsilio’s symposia.” I detect a hint of melancholic nostalgia in Lorenzo’s voice. Ficino would tell me of the time where Lorenzo was more carefree and would spend days within the Academy, debating the nature of Plato and his ideas on Love. Those were the days before his duties to his family and Florence began to weigh heavily on him. 

A small laugh escapes through my nose.“They do become rather heated. I could hear them shouting from my study the last time.”

“As every great debate ought to be!” Lorenzo leads me towards his desk, but does not sit down just yet. “Now, Tyrannus. There was a reason I asked to see you.” I nod knowingly and smirk at him.

“You would not be  _ Il Magnifico _ if there wasn’t an ulterior motive to everything you do.” 

Lorenzo laughs heartily. Few people are allowed to see him like this. I am one of the lucky few, for he has known me since I was a child. 

And, I remind him of his late brother…  _ Giuliano _ . If circumstances were different, it would be Giuliano giving me this talk, as opposed to Lorenzo. He picks up a small weight from his desk and begins to run it through his hands. 

“Tyrannus, you will be celebrating your birthday soon, will you not?” He points to me as he asks me the question. I nod my head in response. 

“Yes, Lorenzo. On the 24th, I shall be turning 20 years old.”

Lorenzo stares off wistfully. “Ahh… To be young with a future full of promise. Do not take these days for granted. Soon enough, you will be cursing the ways your body fails you.” He frowns towards his legs. Lorenzo’s family is plagued with gout. His father died as a result of his gout, and he started showing signs much later in his life. Lorenzo has not been as lucky. He clears his throat and continues.

“But I digress. Now, when I decided to take you in as a ward of the Medici family, I told myself I would treat you as if you were one of my own children. I believe I have done a decent job of that.”

I nod and smile at him. “You have. I would have never had the opportunities to read from my family’s ancient texts had your family not taken me in.”

“Correct. Now, it is my duty as your guardian to ensure that a beneficial match is made for you.”

I frown and take a step back. “A… match?” I decide to try and play ignorant. I had a feeling that this discussion was coming. Still, it was not something I was interested in. Besides, I may be Lorenzo’s ward, but I am hardly a member of the Medici family. 

“Of course! It is only proper that we find a suitable match for you!” Lorenzo places the weight back down on the desk and begins to shuffle a few of the papers lying about. 

“Lorenzo… I do not think anyone would want to be wedded to a  _ Displaced Prince _ .” I purposely use the slanderous name against me in order to make a point. It may be a name given to insult me, and it does not really bother me. But it is a name based in small truths. I have no lands, no titles, no stability. Lorenzo’s face darkens and addresses me in an aggrieved voice. 

“Let me tell you something Tyrannus. Do not allow the words of bitter men to leave a lasting impact on your soul. Now I will make it my duty to see that a proper marriage alliance is secured for you.”

I appreciate the concern, I truly do. But marriage is not a future I see for myself. “Lorenzo. What if I did not want that? I am perfectly content to remain amongst my family’s books in the Academy,” I respond solemnly. My wish is that he drop the subject, but Lorenzo de’ Medici does not work that way.

“Nonsense Tyrannus. You are the sole remaining member of a family that has been around since the time of  _ Constantine the Great! _ It is your duty to ensure your line does not die.” He waves his arms extravagantly. It is very difficult work not to roll my eyes at him. Men like Lorenzo put far too much emphasis on the past. Yes, it is important to know our past, but too much focus on it causes one to lose sense of the future. I come from an ancient family, it is true, but that family is gone now. 

“Lorenzo, I have made peace with my family line dying with me since I was a child. I have my family’s books; I have their legacy and I intend on keeping it alive through their words.” I speak in a soft, somber voice. I almost plead with him to understand my position on the matter.

Lorenzo grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eyes once more. “Will you at least  _ let _ me try? For your parents…”

My back stiffens and I very nearly glare at him. He knows I cannot say no when my parents are concerned. I sigh in resignation and furrow my brows. I see that I will not win this argument with him, so I offer a compromise; a deal with him. 

“What if I gave you until the end of this year? Until the Epiphany celebration; to find me a  _ suitable _ match? One that  _ I _ approve of as well.” I emphasize that I shall have the final say (if there is any say at all).

Lorenzo regards me with an astounded look. “You truly have become a part of this family, Tyrannus! Only a  _ Medici _ would offer up a deal like that.”

I nod towards him and shrug my shoulders. “I did learn from the best. Shall we shake on it?” I offer my hand and Lorenzo takes it willingly. 

“Until the Epiphany celebration I shall do whatever it takes to get you married.”

“I don’t doubt that. Would that be all, Lorenzo?” I am ready to get out of this meeting. I really do need some time outside of this building in order to process everything that has just occured. Maybe a ride to one of the neighbouring villages will do me some good. 

Lorenzo puts a halt to my plans almost immediately. “Not quite. I had a feeling I would win you over today, so I requested that Signore Botticelli paint a miniature portrait of you. He is already expecting you.”

I try to not groan out loud. Sandro Botticelli is one of the city’s finest painters. At the same time, he is one of the most arrogant men in existence. He has painted every member of Lorenzo’s family, and has never once done so without a complaint. He had been gone from the city for quite some time (The Vatican requested his talents for their holy Basilica). I suppose now that he’s back, Lorenzo has already begun with the commissions. I shake my head at him; the impossible man. 

“You truly are one of a kind, Lorenzo.”

“That’s why they call me  _ Il Magnifico _ . Now go on. You may take one of the horses into town.” Lorenzo walks back to his chair. He settles in and waves me away. I bow my head at him and exit the room. 

“Thank you, gran Maestro.”

I make my way to the stables, stopping by my rooms to put on some warm outer clothes. I could walk to the city, but it really is much faster to go by horse and with the sun making its way into midday, I should make my way to Botticelli’s workshop as quickly as possible, before the day begins to darken. 

I mount my favourite horse, a chocolate mare I’ve called Minerva, and start to ride towards Florence. As I pass the hills and small houses that dot the trail, I think about how the events of my life have brought me here to this moment. 

I come from a long line of nobility from the lost empire of Byzantium, on my mother’s side. She, as well as her family were forced to flee the city of Constantinople when she was a young girl. My grandfather, having impeccable foresight, knew the war against the Ottoman Turks was lost. So he had arranged for all of the ancient books and texts from my family’s libraries to be moved to Florence, to the libraries of Cosimo de’ Medici (Lorenzo’s grandfather). My family was offered sanctuary within the court, but my grandfather had other obligations to attend to. My mother was betrothed to my father, a nobleman from England, so my family settled there. It was where I was born and where I spent the first five years of my life. 

But because turbulence and bad luck seem to follow my family like a dark cloud, it wasn’t long before we were destroyed once again. England, at the time, was in the middle of a dynastic war between two royal families; The Yorks and the Lancasters. My father was a Lancastrian and while that worked to his benefit for the longest time, my mother, sharing the same aptitude for forethought as her father, knew that our time in the sun would not last. She had written to several powerful houses in Italy (The Sforza, the Argonese, the de’ Medici, and the Este), and offered them everything we had left if they would take me in, should it be necessary. Out of those families, only Giuliano de’ Medici responded. 

I remember the last night I saw my mother and father as if it were yesterday. I still have dreams about it. I remember being asleep in my chambers, when my mother swept inside, bright ruby-red dress flowing around her. She roused me from my sleep and scooped me up into her arms. I could not understand what was happening at the time. She rushed me through the kitchens, where a small band of trusted servants were waiting for us. With tears in her eyes, she held onto me, running her fingers through my dark hair. I remember her smoothing the strands from my face as she reminded me to remain strong and to never forget the lineage I was born into, even in the darkest of nights. The last thing she told me was that I was the very best of both her and my father and that she would always be with me. With a final kiss on my head and a caress of my cheek, she was gone, ruby skirts flowing behind her. I remember crying out to her, begging her to come back. None of it mattered, for we were soon off, galloping on horses as we rode into the night. 

My mother had managed to obtain passage for myself and my governess aboard a ship headed to one of the ports controlled by the Florentines. I don’t remember much of the journey to Florence. I think my mind has decided to block those memories from me. All the better, for I wish to never think of them. I do remember docking at one of the ports and my governess quietly ushering me into a small inn, where a tall, handsome man with flowing dark hair and kind brown eyes was waiting for us: Giuliano de’ Medici.

Giuliano was the younger, more care-free brother of Lorenzo. He was, by all accounts, the heart and soul of the Medici family, and it was because of his gentle heart that I found my way into the  _ Palazzo Medici _ . That day, he took me aside and explained to me that he would be taking care of me from now on. When I asked about my parents, he was kind, yet truthful. He explained that it was almost certain that my parents did not survive the attack. I remember being determined not to cry in front of this stranger, but the thought of my mother was too much for me. A strong, reassuring hand on my shoulder was all it took to let loose the floodgates. As he continued to pat my back, Giuliano explained that we would wait for word from England in case he was wrong, but that I should prepare myself for the worst. He did not sugar-coat the reality of my situation, and I suppose it was because of his honesty that I learned to quickly trust him. 

For the next three years, Giuliano looked after me, and treated me as if I was his own son. It took some time for my walls to come down, but eventually I saw him as a father figure in my life. I was beginning to get a true sense of having a family again… when… 

But I don’t think about that… About the blood and the knives. I don’t think about the Easter mass that would once again break apart any family and hope I dared to have. 

I don’t think about any of that. Instead I make my way to Botticelli’s studio, where the impatient maestro is already waiting for me. I tie up my horse and proceed to knock on the door. The door opens in a rush. Before me stands Sandro Botticelli, all impertinence and self-importance.

“Tyrannus! Glad you could make it!” Botticelli gently grabs my sleeve and pulls me into the workshop. I stand tall and watch him with a disinterested look on my face.

“Signore Botticelli. Always a pleasure.” Botticelli rolls his eyes at my formal address and already begins to scurry about around the workshop. He calls out to me over his shoulder.

“Tyrannus, while I do appreciate the formal greeting, please call me Sandro.”

I shake my head and raise my hands in consternation. “Does no one around here appreciate formality? Fine…  _ Sandro. _ ” 

Sandro places a stool in front of a window, where a little soft light has managed to come through. “I see you have finally given in to Lorenzo’s demands.”

“You know how it is. Whatever Lorenzo de’ Medici wants, Lorenzo de’ Medici gets. I would like to get this sitting done as soon as possible.” My continued icy tone is really unnecessary, but I have already had a long day and I find it difficult to mask my disdain. 

“Yes yes, Tyrannus! We all know you have important work to do at the Academy! Tell Signore Poliziano that if he’s got a problem, he can take it up with  _ Il Magnifico _ !” Sandro waves a hand dismissively towards me and then roughly points to the small stool. I roll my eyes and settle into place. Sandro starts to walk away and yells out towards the back rooms. 

“Simon! Where are you, boy?! We are waiting for you!”

I straighten up and roll my shoulders back in surprise. I was not expecting this. I start to get up from the chair when Sandro places his hand on my shoulder, settling me back down. “Wait. I was under the impression that you-”

Sandro casts a dark glare at me and I settle back down. It is clear that he is beyond fed up with my attitude. “Please, I do not have the patience nor the time to paint yet  _ another _ member of the  _ gran maestro’s _ household. No, your miniature portrait will be handled by my young assistant.  _ Simon! _ ” He barks out once more, abrasively. 

I adjust a crease in my shirt and tuck some of my raven-black hair behind my ear. I look up and my breath becomes caught in my throat. 

A broad-shouldered, tawny-skinned young man rushes from the back rooms, carrying what seems to be half of Sandro’s art supplies in his hands. Canvases, boards, charcoal, and paints ( _ why _ would he need paints right away). I quickly turn my head from him so as to conceal the blush creeping onto my cheeks (clearly I am embarrassed for this young man… nothing more...). 

A loud crash makes me turn my head back. I notice a head full of long bronze curls before me, surrounded by scattered charcoal, paints, and brushes on the floor. He looks up at me, blue eyes sparkling and a deep red blush creeping across his face. 

Damn it all...

“Apologies… Signore…” He starts to stammer at me. I lift a hand at him and narrow my eyes. I can feel my heart quicken as I begin to think about the many ways I can continue to make him blush. I shake the impure thoughts from my mind and conceal myself behind the mask of indifference I wear around court. 

My impervious, cold mask. I need it now than ever. Because a blue-eyed, bronze-haired disaster has just crashed into me and I do not need disasters in my already unstable life. 

So, time to scare away another rosy-cheeked young man.

“Pitch.” I reply, with acid in my voice. I turn to Sandro, who looks as if he is just about ready to murder the boy, and drawl out sarcastically, “I must say _ Sandro _ , you certainly know how to pick them. I was wondering why I had never seen  _ this _ apprentice before. I suppose I have my answer.” 

I look back to the young man,  _ Simon _ , who has collected himself and is now wearing a look that could strike me dead. I laugh scornfully at him, which only angers him further. 

_ Perfect. _

“I think this one will prove to be more of a handful than you can handle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to the Academy.” I lift myself from the stool and stroll towards the door. It takes every fibre of my being not to run out of that building as fast as I can. But I have been practiced in the art of nonchalance, so I make it to the door, when Sandro calls out to me. 

“Tyrannus!” 

I look back to Sandro and his unfortunate assistant. I give them both a mocking sneer and a graceful wave of my hand. “Sorry,  _ Signore Botticelli _ . I know you are a very busy man. We can try again tomorrow, perhaps.” 

I exit the workshop and take a minute to gather my thoughts. The poor boy will probably be getting a tongue lashing from Botticelli. I want to feel sorry for him, but I cannot allow myself to feel  _ anything _ for him. I untie Minerva and begin to ride out of the city. 

As I gallop away from the city, my thoughts start to become more and more cloudy. I try to focus on the translations I need to finish, or on the discussion that Lorenzo and I had earlier today. I even try to think about the many arguments between my Academy peers. But no matter how I try, I keep coming back to one thought and one image. 

Of a boy with blue eyes, bronze curls, and a brightly flushed face. 

Misfortune and misery seem to follow me around like a dark cloud. And the Divine seems to have played a cruel joke on me. Because after one look into those ordinary blue eyes and I now think I understand the inspiration behind Dante and Petrach’s poetry. I want to read Plato once more and determine if  _ these _ feelings inside of me count as his version of Love. 

How can it be? It is not possible. I pull on Minerva’s reins and hop off. I bend down and start to gasp for air. 

_ It is not allowed… _

I take several deep breaths and push my budding feelings down. As deep as they can go. I push them further than the pain of losing my mother, of losing my name. Of losing Giuliano. I shall not permit these feelings to ever come out again. I cannot go back to see Signore Botticelli and  _ that boy! _

_ Simon... _

I hope that my cold, intimidating personality is enough to keep him as far away from me as possible. I hope that I have sufficiently scared him away. I hope I never have to look at those ordinary blue eyes again. 

Any other path is not an option. 


End file.
